


The Saxon Prisoner

by orphan_account



Series: Through all of Time [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will not appeal to many Lewis fans, I know, but I love to do AU and especially in different settings.  I'm not expecting any feedback at all, but if you feel you'd like to, please do comment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saxon Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> Lews-Theàl - a nice conceit including Lewis' name in the possible origin of Lostwithiel.  
> Kernow - Cornwall although also known as West Wales in the 6th century when this tale is set  
> Gael - common name for the Celtic language spoken in Cornwall, Wales, Scotland and Ireland

Lord Robert of Lews-Theàl was a happy man. The first large-scale Saxon incursion across the Tamar had been repulsed, several heads were bobbing along on the spears of his men and the rest had fled. Except the harper, of course, he was trudging along behind Lord Robert’s horse, hands bound and tied to the saddle.

The second most powerful man in Kernow twisted to look at his prisoner. The young man looked no more than a boy despite his great height. His un-bearded face could have been that of a maiden, so clear was his skin and his gangling long limbs were not those of a warrior. What in the name of the Goddess had he been doing in a raiding party? He wouldn’t have got captured if he hadn’t tripped over his own feet and got brought down by the weight of that bloody harp on his back.

He gave a tug on the rope and brought the lad closer.

“Hey! You! What’s your name?” He didn’t expect an answer but to his great surprise, the lad answered in fluent Gael.

“I am Haffwe, bard and scribe to Lord Cerdic of Wessex.”

“Not now, you’re not” growled the Celt. “You’re Haffwe, prisoner of Lord Robert of Lews-Theàl,”

“Thrall theign of King Mark of Kernow,” the lad finished for him, smiling in a superior way.

“How come you speak our language then?” Lord Robert was a rough warrior, the workings of the mind, apart from battle planning, were a foreign country to him

“I speak Saxon, Latin, Gael (north and south) and a little Greek, just enough to interpret for the traders.”

“Smart-arse,” Lord Robert turned back to face the front and clucked his horse into a gentle trot out of sheer spite, forcing the boy to jog to keep up. Fortunately for Haffwe they weren’t too far from the camp so he didn’t have to collapse and get dragged. He entered the palisade surrounding Lord Robert’s home on his own two feet, able to look into the faces of the severed heads that decorated the wooden poles around the gate.

* * * * *

That evening, Haffwe was taken from the iron ring and brought into the hall, pushed in front of Lord Robert and shoved to his knees. The Celtic leader picked some food from his plate, shoved it in his mouth and said

“Hungry, lad?” Haffwe nodded eagerly. A chicken leg was thrown on the floor in front of him, in the rushes and filth. He grabbed it and started to eat like a man starving.

“Now, clever-tongued Haffwe – I want to know how useful you are going to be to me. Do I ask a ransom for you, do I keep you or do I give you to my children to play with? They are just learning and would like the sport of putting a man to death.”

Haffwe crawled to the nobleman’s feet and sat on his heels.

“I can be very useful, my lord. If you will let me just whisper in your ear, I do not want to reveal my usefulness to all.”

There was a stirring in the hall – this young pup was cheeky, this was not his place to ask. Lord Robert held up a hand and beckoned the bard to him.

“Come here and speak, Haffwe but if you move just once in a way that my bodyguards don’t like they will run you through. Do you understand that?”

The others in the hall only saw the tall lad bend forward respectfully to whisper in their lord’s ear. The dark eyebrows shot up into Lord Robert’s hairline then he frowned, shook his head and waved impatiently as if to demand a repetition. The young man bent forward again and spoke, nodding eagerly.

* * * * * *

Nobody saw Lord Robert’s personal servant bring Haffwe to the sleeping quarters that night. The chieftain was lying fully dressed on his bed shelf, wolf-skins heaped around him and he indicated the boy to kneel by the bed.

“Tell me again, Shape-shifter. What, exactly, was it the priests of Freya taught you?” The boy’s lips trembled but when he answered, his voice was firm.

“They taught me to be all things, Lord. To a man I can be a woman, to a woman, I can be a man. I can travel between the worlds; it is a secret of the Gythi.”

The Celtic lord looked at him sceptically.

“Show me.”

“Then extinguish the lamp, Lord. This is a thing to be felt, not seen.” The young harper was taking control of the situation.

Almost against his better judgement, Lord Robert pinched out the wick of the lamp and waited.

Long, strong fingers began to stroke him and a mouth, soft and sweet, closed on his. Fine delicate hair brushed his cheeks as his lips were opened by a questing tongue. His body started to respond, against his will, trying to remember that his was a lad but to no avail. He found his arms folding the young man to him and pushing up.

“This is witchcraft, Haffwe,” he breathed. He felt, rather than saw him smile.

“Aye Lord, but marvellous sweet witchcraft.”

“I’ll keep you, Harper. You will be as useful as you promised.”

“Yours to command, my Lord - what is your will?”

“Show me how a man fucks a man, Haffwe, I want to learn.”

“I serve my Lord.”

No more words were spoken and the Saxon prisoner became his master’s lover that night.


End file.
